Inside the house Abby scurried up the stairs and Wes stood in the front hall, hands in his pockets. I tossed my half-eaten ice cream in the kitchen trash, slipped my sandals off and climbed onto the counter to reach the high cupboard where Drew had always stashed the light bulbs.
“Can I help you?” Wes called from the doorway.
“I can reach it, I think.” Kneeling on the counter, I opened the cupboard door and peered in.
Wes came up behind me. “Let me help you.”
“I guess I should move things to where I can reach them, but this is where he always kept light bulbs, so…” My voice trailed off. “That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”
“No,” Wes said. “It doesn’t at all.” With his left hand, he pulled down a box with two big bulbs in it. “These?”
I nodded, sitting back on my bare heels. Then I embarrassed myself completely by bursting into tears. “Oh God, I’m sorry. It’s just one of those things, you know? That he always did.”
“You don’t have to be sorry.” He looked around, grabbed a tissue from the box nearby, and handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I blew my nose and kept talking. I have no idea why. “Sometimes it’s those small things that make me miss him more than the big things. I just picture him. Changing the porch light. Mowing the lawn. Moving a heavy piece of furniture. Stupid, mundane, everyday things that he should be here to do. But he isn’t.”
“I know.”
I felt a hand on my back. A couple awkward pats. I frowned. Drew would have wrapped his right arm around my waist, buried his face in my neck, and swung me down before teasing me about being too short to reach the high cupboards. Fuck, I missed that kind of touch. Playful and tender and loving. I missed it so much that some secret place in me wanted Wes to do it—grab me and touch me that way. I wanted to do what Abby had done, bring a memory to life, pretend he was Drew, act like nothing had changed. Let me feel his touch and his kiss and his body against mine just one more time. Let me feel like everything is okay. Let me forget I’m alone.
“Sometimes I get mad at him for it,” I whispered, clutching the tissue. “For leaving me alone to do everything—the trivial shit like this, and the huge stuff like parenting our daughter. I didn’t want this. He left me. He left us.”
“Hannah.” His palm stilled on my back, warm and reassuring. I didn’t deserve it. What kind of person gets mad at her dead husband?
“Isn’t that horrible?” Another sob worked its way free from my chest. “That I feel anger at him for something he didn’t choose? Go ahead, you can say it.”
“It’s not horrible. It’s grief. Earlier today, Mom was digging at me about something and I thought, Damn you, Drew, for leaving me alone to deal with Mom for the rest of my life. And then I felt like shit.”
“Exactly. It makes no sense.” I wiped my runny nose with the back of my wrist.
He handed me another tissue. “It never will.”
Nodding, I closed my eyes against the tears. He rubbed my back again, and for a moment, just for a moment, I let myself pretend.
He’s not gone. Everything is gonna be okay.
But then Wes took his hand off me, and I was alone again. Alone and snot-nosed and embarrassed. I got down from the counter, keeping my face to the floor. “Screwdriver is in here,” I said, pulling open the junk drawer. My fingers were shaking. “I need to get Abby in the tub.”
“No problem. I’ll get this changed and head home.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t even look at him as I left the room. I couldn’t.
I bathed Abby, read her a story, sang her a song, and tucked her in.
“Everything okay?” I brushed her hair from her face. She’d been uncharacteristically quiet since we’d gotten home, and I was still worried about her.
“Yes.” But she didn’t sound sure.
“Want to ask me a question?”
“Yes.” She looked up at me. “Are you sure he’s not Daddy?”
The desperate hope in her eyes crushed my broken heart. “Yes, honey. I’m sure.”
“He looks just like him.” She glanced at the photo on her nightstand.
“I know. That’s because they’re identical twins. Remember, I told you it might be strange to see him.”